


The Helper

by alwaysastorm



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Evil, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysastorm/pseuds/alwaysastorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written during the 2012 summer break for a Motorskink prompt about Fernando selling his soul. </p>
<p>
  <i>Set between 2001 and mid-2012.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Helper

He didn't look like Fernando had imagined He would. But then, he wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected when he had first walked into that office. He was still a rookie, still young, and to be honest, everything about this world was pretty scary to him right now. The room was dim, wood-panelled, and smelt of the cigar He was smoking. Fernando's heart thudded as approached the desk, his feet making a too-loud noise as he took each step forward. And while he did that, He just stared.

He stubbed out the cigar and motioned for Fernando to sit down. Linking His fingers together, He smiled. His eyes were covered by dark shades, but His teeth were white and wolfish; His salt and pepper hair long and curling at the nape of His neck. His appearance was nothing out of the ordinary, but He gave off an unsettling aura that Fernando tried to put to the back of his mind.

"You have thought things over?"

Fernando swallowed nervously before nodding.

"Yes."

"You are sure."

"Yes. I am sure."

"Why?" He handed Fernando a thick pile of paper. The contract. 

Fernando felt the back of his neck prickle at His unrelenting stare.

"Because I want it all. Wins. Titles. I want what Michael has and I'm never going to get that at Minardi."

"And the price?"

Fernando momentarily shut his eyes.

"I will pay it. Give me the pen."

His hands shook as he quickly signed the page. He'd heard about this when he arrived in F1 – that some, like he had been, were chosen by Him. They were the special ones. Others came to Him, begging for His aid. Those ones rarely reaped the glories that his chosen ones had. Some never succeeded again. Some were fired. Some died. 

He handed the contract back, and in return was given a thick, creamy coloured business card. A number was embossed on it in gold, along with the words _'Name your desire'_. 

"You want something, you call that number to ask, yes?" His voice was heavily accented, but Fernando couldn't place where it came from.

"What shall I call you?" Fernando asked.

A smile flickered upon His lips, and Fernando felt the room go cold - ice cold.

"The others call me The Helper."

 

 

**Help me get everything that I want from Renault.**

"Sacked?!" 

Fernando almost spat out his water as Flavio told him that Jarno was gone. The season wasn't even over yet, and Renault had let his teammate go _now_? 

"We can focus all our attention on you now, no?" Flavio laughed somewhat manically as he slapped Fernando's back. 

Fernando smiled – Jarno had been a friend; as much a friend as another driver could ever be in this sport, but he'd been stiff competition too. Fernando thought of Jarno's win in Monaco, how he'd been so envious he could practically taste it, and how he'd told Flavio that he knew that _he_ was the big talent in the team, that _he_ was the one to lead Renault to championships.

And now, here he was, with Flavio promising him everything the team had to offer. And Fernando knew he would get it. Sometimes... sometimes when he was driving, it felt like it wasn't even him. It felt like some other force was inhabiting his body, enabling him to do more with that car than it should really have been capable of. He remembered all the interviews Ayrton had given about God helping him, but it didn't feel like that to Fernando. Whatever it was – and Fernando didn't like to dwell on the thoughts of what it may be – it wasn't God.

Jarno came back for the last two races. He had stopped dead in his tracks when he'd seen Fernando in the paddock; red and white being confronted with his former blue and yellow.

"Was it you"? Jarno had asked before Fernando had even had a chance to express to him how sorry he had been.

"Of course not! We were friends, Jarno. Didn't you think we were friends?"

Fernando was very aware of his voice getting louder and higher-pitched. He made to put a hand on Jarno's arm, but the other man flinched away, looking at him with suspicion.

"I don't know about friends, Fernando," he began, backing away slowly. "But I liked you. Until... until you _changed_."

Fernando watched his former teammate stride off in the direction of the Toyota motorhome. How could he not have changed? He'd gone from a shy, insecure teenager in the worst car on the grid, to a young man with increasing levels of confidence in a race-winning car. He had talent, and he was just making the most of it. Every night as he lay in bed, unable to sleep, he told himself that over and over. His talent had got him where he was. He could have done that with or without The Helper.

 

**Help me win in an historic team. One that some of the greats drove for. I am ready.**

The question had come when he'd taken his first World Championship in Brazil. Ron had been there; proud, and glorifying in the fact that McLaren had gotten a 1-2 finish with Juan Pablo and Kimi. Two great drivers, yet it had been Fernando he had spoken to; offering everything and promising the world. Fernando had said 'yes' before he'd even had time to consider who his teammate would be in a new team. He had just become the youngest ever WDC – any team was going to want to snap him up. This was a natural progression in his career. Ron would have asked him to join McLaren without any outside influences, no doubt.

He liked Lewis at first. He could see that the young English guy wanted to learn from him, was so thrilled to be in F1, especially racing for a team like McLaren as a rookie. They got along fine. They liked to chat about video games, had a laugh about Mercedes adverts they had to make. And Fernando was still getting everything he wanted. In Monaco, the team, his team, made sure that Lewis wouldn't challenge for the lead. He thought often of taking his third WDC in a row. No-one else was going to win it but him. Not this year. Maybe not even the next, either. Not while he had everything he wanted from McLaren. Who needed help? He was the one driving the car. He was the one winning.

 

Fernando's hands didn't even shake as he dialled His number. The business card was safely tucked into a hidden compartment in his wallet, but he knew the number off by heart by now; knew that He would pick up after 6 rings, and simply ask _"How can I help?"_

"I don't need your help, anymore," Fernando had said; so full of confidence in himself, his life, that his voice was firm.

The line went silent before a soft chuckle came from the other end of the line.

"Do you think it's that simple, Alonso? You signed the contract."

"Contracts can be broken."

The chuckle became a laugh that made Fernando's blood run cold. 

"Oh yes, they can. They can indeed."

Fernando clenched his jaw. He wasn't some kid new into F1 anymore. He was a double WDC and he needed help from no-one.

"You won't be hearing from me again," he spat. "You can tear up the contract."

"Thinking that all this success is purely your own doing is a very big mistake, Alonso. One that others have been wise not to make."

"Tear up the fucking contract!" Fernando shrieked, his palms starting to sweat. 

"As you wish. As you look up at the mountain, you will realise the mistake you have made."

 

The car was a steaming wreck. Fernando flexed his fingers, wriggled his toes. He was fine, but the McLaren was a broken shell. The rain in Fuji had not been kind to him, and it'd been a few seasons now since he'd had such a big accident. As the rain drops continued to trickle down his visor, he looked up, and saw the imposing spectacle of Mount Fuji looming over him. His stomach plummeted as he realised with absolute certainty that he would not win this year.

 

**Just get me out of McLaren. I don't care where, I just need your help to get out. Give me another chance.**

The Helper had told Fernando that the stakes were higher now, that there would be a bigger price to pay if he wanted to win again. But this? This was a joke. The R28 was just about capable of top 10 finishes – but wins? Fernando ached for victory. Even a podium would have been something to build on.

He felt like this was his penance for trying to break away from The Helper. He felt chastised, embarrassed, even. He was giving it his all on track but for little reward. He and Nelsinho, in this navy and orange ugly lump of metal masquerading as a racing car. Meanwhile, the McLarens and Ferraris sped away into the distance, leaving him floundering. 

Lewis. _Lewis_ was speeding away into the distance, in every way possible. Was he getting help also? Or was he really that good, all on his own. Fernando couldn't sleep sometimes, wondering. He'd close his eyes, only to find himself back in that Hungary pitlane, willing his foot to press the accelarator, but it hadn't. Even now, he had no idea what had possessed him. Maybe the problem was that at that point, he hadn't been possessed. That fucking mess at the Hungaroring had been all his own doing.

 

**Are you still punishing me? I want to WIN!**

The help, when it finally came again, was bigger, better, than Fernando had expected. Two wins in a row in a car that really didn't deserve them. The heat and sweat and exhaustion of Singapore, the surrealness of a night race... it was all like a very, very strange but wonderful dream. And Fuji, where he'd benefited from some tussles between the frontrunners but raced his backside off until finally, he understood what Senna had said about feeling at one with the car.

And then, He had summoned Fernando to His office once more. He looked much the same as He had more than half a decade earlier. His hair was a little greyer and His sunglasses had changed, but the cigar was still there, the predatory grin was still there, and the lingering sense of uneasiness that Fernando felt when he was with Him was still there.

"You are a man now," He had said, looking Fernando up and down. 

"Yes."

"A man who wins."

"Yes."

"And for that, aren't you going to thank me?"

Fernando raised an eyebrow, and then He told him everything. The win in Singapore that had come when the team had needed it most, that crash that Nelsinho had... it had all been made to happen. Fernando had been so relieved when he'd benefitted from that safety car – it had meant that simple fate, Nelsinho's inexperience, and his own talent had led to the victory. He couldn't hear this. He couldn't deal with knowing that The Helper had done it all. 

"You bastard," he said under his breath, but The Helper just smiled, shark-like.

"You wanted to win. You _asked_ me."

"Not at the cost of another driver's career!" Fernando yelled, throwing his hands up. "You know that this will never stay hidden. You KNOW that people will find out what Nelson did – and then his career will be over."

The Helper stubbed out his cigar and shrugged, His nose wrinkled up in distate. He sat back in His swivel chair.

"So? What do you care? You won. You agreed to pay the price – any price for that. Is it important that the boy's career will end? Is he special, or unique, or talented enough to win the way you have? No."

Fernando felt like he was watching himself from above as he lunged towards The Helper, grabbing the lapels of His coat and leaning into His face.

"You didn't tell me that other people were going to suffer for this."

The Helper laughed, and Fernando almost retched at the smell of his hot breath.

"And what did you think the price would involve, hmm? Did you think you could ask me to help you, and not expect others to falter as a consequence? Are you that _naive_ , Alonso?"

Fernando let go of the coat and put his hands on his head in despair.

"Oh dear God, help me."

"God? God is not the one that has been coming to your aid for the past seven years. Do you want to achieve greatness, Fernando? Do you want to be remembered always?"

"Yes. _Yes_." Fernando's voice broke on the last word.

"THEN TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT."

As Fernando sank to his knees on the floor, he desperately fought back the urge to sob.

"Ferrari," he croaked. "I want Ferrari."

 

 

**Help Felipe. Please. This time I am begging. If that means we become teammates, then so be it.**

"How else did you expect me to find you a free seat at Ferrari?" The Helper said. "A sacrifice had to be made." 

"Not this way. Do something. Fucking hell, _do_ something. I don't want people to die for me to succeed."

Fernando hung up, running to the toilet in the motorhome and vomiting. As he wiped the flecks off his lips, he thought wryly to himself that this wasn't the most normal way to be 'celebrating' an unexpected pole position. He wanted to drive for Ferrari, yes. He wanted to be a great, and a seat in the Italian team was a sure fire way to achieve that – but not at the cost of Massa's life. He and the Brazilian weren't friends, but despite what everyone thought, Fernando didn't dislike the guy. He was tough to dislike, really. He heaved again as he thought of Felipe lying in a hospital bed, hovering between life and death. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe he hadn't called The Helper in time.

He slept fitfully, overcome with the relief the following morning when he heard from the team that Felipe was still alive, still hanging in there. Reluctantly, he picked up his mobile.

"He's going to be okay? Promise me."

"I will not take his life, if that's what you wish," came the reply. "No matter how... _disposable_ I think Massa is."

Fernando looked out of the motorhome window, wincing as he saw the worried expressions on the faces of all the Ferrari employees walking past. 

"Just make him better," he pleaded. "Get me into Ferrari some other way. Kimi – he could go to another team... you could arrange that easily, I know you could."

There was a pause at the other end of the line, and Fernando could imagine The Helper sitting back in that large leather chair, His long-fingernailed hands linked together as He cooked up some other diabolical plan.

"Very well," He said. "But you should know, achieving greatness at Ferrari will mean you end up destroying Massa in other ways."

 

_As Fernando sat down beside Robert's hospital bed, he thought back to see if there was any way he, or The Helper had been responsible for the accident. It pained him to see his good friend lying there, even paler and thinner than usual. He was hooked up to a drip and monitors that Fernando wasn't familar with. All he knew was that they were helping Robert to survive, and he was glad._

_They'd said he'd been one of the first people to call or visit. Fernando took comfort in that. Perhaps he wasn't the terrible person that he had started to think he was; perhaps he was more than the driver who was leaving a trail of broken careers behind him._

_Robert's lips were dry and cracked as he parted them to try to speak. Fernando saw the tumbler of water at his bedside, and carefully raised it to Robert's lips, imploring him to take small sips. He could hardly bear to look at those sunken cheeks or the dark, haunted circles underneath the Polish driver's eyes._

_"Enough?"_

_Robert gave a weak nod before resting his head back onto the pillow._

_"Happy you are here," he whispered._

_Fernando placed a hand on top of Robert's forearm – the one that wasn't damaged._

_"I had to be here. Everyone is asking about you. Everyone is hopingto see you back soon."_

_He paused, and gave a small smile._

_"We'll be teammates yet at Ferrari. Okay?"_

_Robert turned his head to the side, those green eyes penetrating into Fernando's._

_"You know he would never allow that. Not now."_

_Fernando sat back in the uncomfortable plastic chair._

_"Who? Stefano? Luca?"_

_Robert gave a hacking cough, his face contorted with pain as he continued to speak._

_"You know who I mean. The one who is helping you."_

_Fernando felt a wave of queasiness wash over him. Out of everyone in F1, he could never hide his feelings from Robert. Nor could he ever lie to him, because Robert was the only one who had ever had the guts to tell him the truth._

_He exhaled, slowly._

_"How do you know?"_

_It was obvious that it took all Robert's strength to motion his head towards his injured arm, and the hand that had the IV line in it._

_"He chooses more than one, you know. You weren't the only one who he offered greatness to. You said yes - but I said no. And this was his revenge."_

 

**I do NOT want Mark at Ferrari.**

The Helper had assumed that when Fernando had called to ensure that Webber wouldn't join him at Ferrari, it was because he thought Mark would beat him on track. Fernando had played along with that idea, simultaneously shocked and relieved that The Helper didn't really know his motives.

Fernando knew what his contract was, and what any teammate's contract would demand. And he didn't want Mark to have to sign that; to have to accept that he would always play second fiddle if he joined Ferrari. And lately, he and Mark... Well, he didn't want the Australian's career to be destroyed because of _him_. If he had to take people down while he worked his way to the top, he'd rather it wasn't someone he cared for.

He brought his thoughts back to Dasha. She was a sweet girl, but they had nothing in common. Once his marriage to Raquel had failed, it seemed as if his private life had spiralled out of control. The better his results on track, somehow the lonelier he felt off it. Another consequence of getting help.

As Fernando laid out his overalls and fireproofs on the bed, ready to prepare for the race ahead at Hockenheim, he thought about his pole lap. Pole felt good, but winning felt better. That pole at Silverstone a fortnight previously had felt amazing – but then Mark had snatched the victory away from him. And even now, with a grid penalty after his gearbox change, who's to say he couldn't do that again? The need to deliver a championship for Ferrari burned inside him. The Helper had told him that the higher the prize, the higher the price. Fernando wondered exactly how much more he was going to have to pay.

 

_"Thank you for seeing me. I didn't think you would return my call."_

_"I always return calls. I am always interested in what a driver has to say."_

_The Helper looked at the man standing before him, then at the framed photographs in his office. Schumacher, Prost, Stewart, Senna, amongst others. Some, but not all, were ones He had helped. Some were merely ones that He admired – ones that He would loved to have worked with._

_The driver standing in front of him was neither of those things. But it took courage to get in touch first. Confidence. The driver had both in abudance, if nothing else._

_The Helper smiled. It was always nice to see a new face in his office. He liked to toy with them, like a cat with a mouse. And like that cat, there was only so long he could do that before getting bored and destroying it._

_"So tell me how I can help you, Mark?"_


End file.
